


Queen of Light

by LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770)



Series: Page St James Guitar God [3]
Category: Led Zeppelin, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Anal Sex, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Canon Timeline, Drama, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Feels, Female guitar god, Female rock star, Female!Page, Fluff, Genderbending, Guitar god, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Page St James - Freeform, Page is the only woman in her band, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, References to Drugs, Restraints, Sex, Sex Toys, Threesome - F/M/M, True Love, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Whips, genderflipped, mention of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111
Summary: All right so I lied, lol.Here's more of female rock god Page St James, genderflipped Jimmy Page,  during the making of Led Zeppelin III and IV, and a big, unexpected surprise. Funny moments, Robert being dramatic (surprise!) and some nowadays looks at Page and Plant, looking like a forest witch and the King of Rohan.It turns out Page has some interesting sexual likes, including a little bdsm and using her...toys on men lol. Nothing truly kinky or explicit, but hey Robert's probably gonna have a wild ride lol.And then there's the matter of Page's offspring and who the father may be...Page created by Wetkitty420, and now my Muse has demanded tribute in the form of me pulling all this out of my ass lol
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, Jimmy Page/Terry Manning (artist), Robert Plant/Jimmy Page/Terry Reid, Robert Plant/Terry Reid (Musician)
Series: Page St James Guitar God [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946401
Comments: 25
Kudos: 13





	1. The Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComingOfTheLord1985](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComingOfTheLord1985/gifts), [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/gifts).



> Robert, it's a trap! Don't do it, man! You know he's gonna do it. As much as he can, lol.
> 
> Page steering the Zeppelin toward further heights. 
> 
> Some arguing, some sex, it's all good.
> 
> One of possibly 2 or 3 chapters, dealing with the recording and release of Led Zeppelin III and IV. And Page's impending offspring.

/Interview, 1963 

Interviewer: Page St James, what is a session guitarist? 

"They're a musician who's brought in to help make records," the slender, fresh-faced girl answers. She's dressed in a suit jacket, blouse, and skirt, thick black hair to just below the ears carefully smoothed and flipped on the ends. "They're not traveling around with or playing in a band, just getting an ordinary fee for their studio work."

I: You seem pretty young to be a studio professional, there's not many that young, is there?

And she did, round face, dimples, a sketchbook clutched against her hip, younger than her 19 years. "It tends to be a closed shop--the musicians union like to get their own chaps in there," she giggles.

I: Then how did you get to be a session guitarist?

"I don't know," she pauses a moment to consider. "I suppose I had the feel for it. I think for some it's the novelty of a young lady playing guitar."

I: How long have you been playing guitar?

"Four years," she replied. 

I: Have you always been a session musician?

"No, just for the last, oh, 18 months," she smiles, an impish, adorable smile. "I did play with Neil and the Crusaders for a while, doing one night shows all over England, most of the country."

I: So what's it like working with some of the really big names in the music world?

Page grins wider, knowing she was going to rock the boat with what she's about to say. "Disappointing.."

I: How is that?

"Well, they don't come up to what you expect them to be," she giggles again, her little tongue darting out to lick her full bottom lip. It wasn't lost on the interviewer, who couldn't take his eyes off her. "On the whole, most of them were disappointing."

I: You're sure of yourself, *laughs*. Do you intend to keep being a session guitarist, as a career? Or be in your own band? Maybe you want a family someday?

The girl runs a delicate hand through her thick, ebony locks. "Umm, no, not necessarily, I'm really interested in art. I'd like to become an accomplished artist or do graphic design."

I : What about being a lady guitarist? That's not something you want to keep doing, this is just a means to an end, then?

"I hope to finance my art through my guitar," she answered./

2020  
Tower House

"Robert stop watching that beastly interview," admonished the slender, silver-haired woman. 

"It's fucking adorable," laughed Robert, who was watching YouTube on the laptop in the den. Of all things, after her trying to get him using and enjoying smartphones and laptops, he had to find that.

"I was a cheeky little shit. So embarrassing."

"True, but oh, your hair! Hah!"

"Can't you be looking at porn or something?" Page complained.

"Don't check the browser history," the lion-haired man mumbled, then chuckled. He turned in his chair to see her floating among the many paintings she had hanging in the place, usually she was wearing either vintage men's suits or flowing dresses with layers and layers of cloth. She looked like some faery or sorceress, with her long wavy snow-white hair and still-fresh smile. Today she was in a long silk robe, emerald green and embroidered with black leaves.

"Still don't know why you won't marry me. You got one foot in the grave already," he called to her, as she had wandered out into the hallway.

"Fuck off!" Floated back to him.

Thinking of the image of her flitting about this neo-medieval mansion made him start singing. 

"The Queen of Light, took her bow  
And then she turned to go.  
The Prince of Peace, embrace the gloom  
And walk the night alone."

Page returned to the doorway of the den. "Fuck off," she mouthed at him, but she was laughing. "Making me think of that time."

"When we recorded that album? It was magic."

"Yes, it was, it was glorious. I was also sick as anything."

"Oh yeah, you were," Robert laughed. "And unbearable."

"You knocked me up, you asshole! You and the Prince of Peace can stick that up both your asses!" She turned on her heel and in a swirl of silk was gone.

"Does this mean we're broke up?" He called sweetly. He looked like he should be leading a charge from Rohan against Mordor, long, greying blond hair still curly and thick.

"It means you better sleep with one eye open!" Echoed from up the hall.

"Love you!"

"Goddammit I love you too!" 

A door slams.

Robert grins to himself.

1970

Bron-yr-Aur was beautiful, as Robert remembered from his childhood. It became even more so as he and Page grew closer during the stay, musically and otherwise. There was no electricity, just a battery powered cassette player, oil lamps, a fireplace and acoustic instruments. The countryside was gorgeous, like something out of Robert's favorite, Lord of the Rings. He made her eat the fresh food the roadies stocked the pantry and ancient icebox with. And during the far between moments the pair was completely alone, they either walked along the pathways the sheep carved out of the fields and hills together, or they shagged each other senseless. 

Robert loved it. When they laid naked under the trees, listening to the wind whispering, her head on his chest. Or when he shucked down Page's trousers and threw the guitarist onto the countertop in the kitchen and hammered his dick into her. 

Her legs around his waist, him standing, as he fucked her into the wall of the shed outside. God, she weighed so little, it seemed. 

That first time she stole into his room at Bron-yr-Aur like some succubus, beautiful, pale and silent, and fucked him speechless, rode him, on top of him, shocked him until his brain stopped working, unable to comprehend. Just move his hips. Penetrated this dark haired witch, this queen, fucked upwards, into her, enclosed in her flesh, her cunt accepting him gladly. That was the most memorable, for Robert.

A handful of these moments, snatched when they could take them, and both savored them. 

Page knew she should've put a stop to it much sooner, but hell, she was the one that initiated the encounter. A moment of weakness on her behalf, perhaps. Or could be that Robert had gotten under her skin and into her soul more than she was willing to admit to even herself. It was wonderful, though, glorious to use the word she said many years later. The singer was like some warrior prince leading her through the quiet Welsh scenery, excited, happy to share this with her, exuberant. It rubbed off on her; she was happy. When the time came to an end, and they'd written enough songs for the upcoming album, they went to Headley Grange to record, with some of the recording done at their familiar Olympic Studios.

Andy Johns and other well-known faces were there at Headley Grange to assist, along with an art school buddy of Page's, Terry Manning. He'd become an accomplished graphic artist but a good musician and engineer as well, and Page wanted to have him design the cover and jacket for the album. She wanted something different this time, and wanted to give work to a good friend. Recording went according to schedule at Headley Grange, and during one of the sessions they decided to break for a while, except for Page, who was consulting with Terry about the effects on one of the songs. The rest scattered to grab something to eat at one of the restaurants, and after eating and hanging out, Robert decided to walk around a bit, just look around. Bonzo spotted him after some time and swung the car around to get him, saying the other guys were just waiting around outside the house proper for him.

They arrived, exited the vehicle, and filed into one of the wide-spaced rooms that had been set up to record music. Then they began to wonder where their musical drill sergeant was; she was missing. One of the technicians looked terrified and tried to hide.

"Here, now," chided the drummer. "Where's she gone off to? Girls? Cocaine binge? Snack?"

After both Bonzo and Robert stood over him giving him the look, he caved. "She's, um, her and Mr. Manning is, ah--"

"Out with it!" Jonesy finally roared.

"She's upstairs fucking Terry!" he blurted.

"What?" everyone shouted at once. The poor employee winced.

Robert's legs nearly buckled, like, had she already forgotten Bron-yr-Aur? It meant something, didn't it? He knew her predilection for birds, but her attention on him made him feel...singular. But then, who was he to say anything, she wasn't married, wasn't attached to anyone, he was the one that was married.

All this paraded across Robert's face, and the rest could see it. "Rob, hey, we could drive out to that park a while and get outta here--" Bonzo began.

"No point, I'm sure she'll be raring to record once she's..done," the singer said bitterly. "I'll be outside if anyone needs me."

Once he left, John looked at the drummer. "What do we do now? This is, um, awkward."

The drummer squared his shoulders and marched upstairs. "Bonz, wait! It's not your place!" he yelled after him.

"The hell it ain't," Bonzo growled. He searched unused rooms until he heard the bedposts thumping and the obvious sounds of intercourse. In fact, it sounded like they were finishing. He marched to the door of the room in question and kicked it open. "Hey there, Pagey," yelled the drummer. It looked like a medieval dungeon in there, restraints and whips and a set of handcuffs and Terry was strapped to the bed, Page still astride him. It kinda took him aback. "Bloody hell?"

Panting, she narrowed green eyes at the drummer. She was bare, sweaty, with handprints on her ass. "Do you mind?"

"Yeah I mind! The fuck are you doing?"

"Working some frustrations out," came the noncommittal reply. 

"What the hell?" came Jonesy's voice from the broken doorway.

"You've broken our singer," snarled Bonzo.

"Not likely," Page rolled her eyes, which were glassy and dilated.

"Get your narrow ass outside and talk to Percy before I throw you out there," rumbled the bearded drummer.

The artist underneath her was gagged and could only mumble at the whole proceedings. Obviously under the influence of some substances or other, she wobbled, disengaged from Terry, got to her feet, and grasped a whip at the foot of the bed. She whirled it overhead and cracked it perilously close to Jones and Bonzo's heads. Both men ducked. "I'm pretty good with this, so I'm told. Get out, I'll go see Planty. All right?"

Bonzo, shaken and still enraged, turned and stomped out and down the stairs. Jonesy was too shocked to move, just stood there bug-eyed as the woman threw on a shirt and jeans, and followed the drummer.

Terry Manning looked at Jonesy and grunted from where he was tied to the bed. "I suppose you want me to let you out of that," the bassist sighed. Of course the bass player would be left with bloke untying duties. 

Robert was standing, looking out at the flat, green grounds, hugging himself. "Rob," was the gentle, soft voice of the guitarist. He turned.

"I guess it's back to the booth for more tracks?" He surprised himself with how even his tone sounded.

"You weren't supposed to know, not like that. Time got away from me, I didn't realise how long it had been," she said, matter-of-fact. He noticed her slow speech, her unfocused eyes, then.

"I guess Terry supplied you with the stuff," Robert said, his face stricken. "I guess I'm a huge fool. It was a dream, only a stupid dream."

"You weren't wrong to dream, Roblove. Just picked the wrong person."

"I still don't think so," Robert spoke after a moment. "I know you have to be careful, why you don't want to do that with me anymore, there's too much risk for you, but then, this?" he gestured at the house.

"It was another moment of weakness, I suppose," she said. "Weakness, stress, drugs, whatever you want to add to the mix."

"You're not gonna apologize, are you? Not even to make me feel better."

"I don't owe you or anyone else fuckall," she hissed. "For what? For what? I'm a grown woman and I don't belong to you, Percy. I wasn't going out of my way to hurt you, and I'm sorry for that. But I'll fuck or not fuck according to what I want."

He swallowed, and Page feared he'd start weeping on the spot but he didn't. "You don't owe me, you're right. I owe you. I owe you everything, all I have, the experiences, being able to do what I love. It's all because of you. But you don't know what I'd do for you. What I'd give to you, what it does to me to be so close to you yet not be able to love you, and at the same time I can't bear to be away from you."

"What a fine mess we are," she shook her head. Her hair was unwashed, she was sweaty, smelled of sex, Robert didn't care anymore, he was still so heartsick but he loved her. He couldn't say it, but he did. "Percy, you have my permission to kick my ass if I'm so flagrant again. You're my darling boy, you know that?"

He finally met her eyes, held by that green gaze, his insides melting as they did when she looked at him. That's all it took, one look, a touch, that unassuming voice of hers tinged with steel underneath, and he was hers. She was the Music and the Master.

"Well, we might as well use that studio time we paid for," Robert declares, but his face had softened.

"Still friends?" The guitarist asks, smiling hopefully. 

"Friends," Robert concedes, and they walked back into Headley Grange.

Mixing for Led Zeppelin III was done in between a short tour, August 1970 before the release of the album. Page was up to that of course, and the rest of the guys dropped in to see the progress.

Page was sick. She was pale, trembly, fiddling with knobs on the mixing board in a cold sweat. Suddenly she runs into the closest bathroom and the sounds of retching could be heard. 

Jonesy, bless him, barged into the loo and held her hair as she vomited into the toilet. "You don't..you don't have to do that," she gasped out, mortified.

"Yes I do," John soothed.

When she was done, Jonesy helped her up and they both came back into the mixing room, the guitarist looking the worse for wear.

"Are you ok?" Asked Bonzo.

"I'm pregnant," was the reply. 

Everyone's mouth fell open. Then they all looked at Robert. 

"It could be his, or a few others," the woman cut off their thinking.

Robert sat down in a chair heavily. What if it was his? He would be responsible, he would have to acknowledge the child, he'd marry her if he could. "Pagey. It's mine," he declared.

"No. It's mine, no matter who's the father. Don't any of you dare breathe a word of this." Her wan face looked round to all of her compatriots. She began to shake, tears falling down her face. "Carry on as usual, I'll hide it as long as I can. It's my mistake, my burden. I have mixing to finish, and the next album we'd promised Atlantic."

Bonzo and Jonesy surrounded her, wrapped their arms around her. "We're a team," the drummer said. "You ain't alone, you have us."

Robert got up and joined them, squeezing into the group embrace. "Whatever you need. You've given your all this whole time. We'll do whatever we need to do for you."

Page, touched, didn't know what to say.

Page continued to be sick during the short American tour, but she played her heart out every night. She cut down on drugs and alcohol, Robert made sure she ate. One night, as Robert lay in his hotel bed, Page stole into the room as she'd done so many times before, slid into bed with him, he put his arm around her. "How are you?" Robert inquired softly. 

"Tired. Always tired," she replied. "But there's so much to do. We have another album to record before the year is out."

"I'm not blaming you, you can't knock yourself up the duff, but were you taking any kind of, ah, precautions?"

"I had an IUD," she spoke. "I haven't told anyone else this," she whispered, as if the walls could hear. "I miscarried a baby in '65. I was afraid if I messed up again, something worse could happen, so I got the IUD. But then there was a recall, the copper in it was leaking out, poisoning women's systems, some died. So I had it removed. The doctors said that with all that was wrong with me and the miscarriage, I'd probably not be able have children, the likelihood was that I was sterile. I was still frightened, though, so I tried to be careful. With you, though, I couldn't stop myself. I felt safe and happy with you…"

"Pagey, my dear," the singer kissed her forehead. "I could've said no, could've insisted we used condoms. I didn't think...you...Carrying all this, the whole time. You're an amazing person. Stronger than I ever could be."

"Oh, pffft," she scoffed. "I'm a bastard."

"You are," agreed Robert, and snickered. "But you're bloody amazing."

2020  
Robert had tuckered himself out planting more vegetables in the garden. Page originally had flowers and herbs, but once the singer had come back into her life in earnest, he set to work growing things for the table. Ever the famer, that Robert. He was sleeping, still in his robe after having a shower, flat on his back, looking like a carved effigy of some medieval King. Hair floating on the pillow in grey-blond curls, close-trimmed goatee, a venerable golden god, brother in arms, bandmate, pain in her ass, love of her life. She crawled in beside him, twined her fingers in his locks, just looking at him. 

He opened blue eyes, saw the old woman looking into his face. The most beautiful old woman he'd ever seen, her silver hair tied back in a low ponytail, wearing a shirt, suspenders and trousers like she stepped out of the 1920s, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. "I'm afraid I got tired working in the garden," he told her. 

"Are you rested now? I feel like some fun," Page breathes.

The singer grins. "You had something in mind?"

Page brings out one of her dildos from the infamous black box and a bottle of lube. "Yes."

"Aren't we getting too old for this?" Robert knew who it was meant for.

"Nope," the guitarist replied. "Now get that robe off."

"Yes, sir."


	2. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ..and teh sexx. 
> 
> The making of Led Zeppelin IV, clash of personalities, and a lot of sex, lol. 
> 
> F/F  
> M/M  
> Some voyeurism  
> Pregnant sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Page pushing to realize her dream of the perfect rock album. As she helms the Zeppelin she must keep from murdering her bandmates, stay healthy during her pregnancy, and pursue new and better ways to have an orgasm lol. 
> 
> I think this particular story should wrap up in 3 chapters.
> 
> Note: don't do drugs, kids, especially not drugs or alcohol while pregnant. Page has actually curbed a lot of her substance indulgence, but I don't condone drug use and pregnancy.

Queen of Light

2

November 1970, Peter Grant's Office  
Page was slamming down various magazines on G's desk, her face rife with her frustration. "Weak album sales. We're all hype. Too much bombast on the first records, too soft on the last one," she spat. 

"It's the nature of the beast," the massive man who helped keep the Zeppelin afloat offered. "The business, and people's opinions, can be ruthless. Now, look: we have two major options to keep everyone happy. We have offers for a huge New Year's show and others, which would bring in the money and also get people's minds off the 'weak' album. Or, get another album, an epic one, out there right away."

"No rest for the wicked," Jones muttered.

"We'd already planned on writing right away," Robert spoke, his brow furrowed.

"As we go along, playing shows will be more difficult. I'm close to five months along now, and I still haven't got past morning sickness, every day. I think a new album is a safer bet. I need to stay out of the public eye as much as possible, with all this we don't need all the questions," explained Page.

"Next thing is where to do it?" wondered Jonesy. "Somewhere quiet, with no prying eyes."

"Why not Headley Grange again?" piped up Bonzo. "It has a cool vibe."

"Headley Grange it is," acceded the manager. Everyone else agreed. "Now, how's our next guitar god coming along?"

"The physicians say he or she is healthy, doing fine somehow despite my constant morning sickness and permanent exhaustion," she answered, unconsciously rubbing her belly. She also sounded...happy. 

"You're still not showing, I hope you're eating more than whiskey and cigarettes," G chuckles.

"Percy keeps on her about eating," laughs the drummer.

"I'm eating, dads," the guitarist whined. "Now, we just gotta get our asses to Headley Grange."

The night before going to Headley Grange, Pangbourne Boathouse

Charlotte on the enormous bed, blonde hair pooling around her head, legs open, Page's face buried in her muff as she arched her back and moaned. Both had smoked quite a bit of weed and were fuzzy-headed and warm, when the guitarist decided they needed to pleasure one another. Page licked her girlfriend's clit, circled round and round with her talented little tongue, as she also worked two fingers in and out of her entrance rhythmically. 

"Ohh, Page, darling," the model groaned out. She curled her fingers into the black tresses and pulled her face closer to her slit. Page obliged, pulled her pussy lips apart with one hand and jabbed three fingers deep inside her with the other. Charlotte squealed in bliss, bucked her hips in time with the guitarist's hand. She tensed, and Page felt Charlotte's depths pulling at her fingers inside her as she climaxed, sending more juices down Page's hand and in her mouth.

The guitarist didn't stop until Charlotte came again, this time screaming out her release, and once she was done she crawled up the perfect little body until she was sitting on her face. Dutifully she began to lick and suck, as Page began to fuck herself on her lover's face.

Oh, yes. Yes. That's good. She was hornier than ever, if that could be believed. Charlotte caressed Page's slim, velvety thighs, her ass, ran up her abdomen which had the barest hint of a baby bump. Charlotte had been overjoyed, oddly enough, with Page having a baby. She'd been helping her musician girlfriend fix up a nursery in anticipation of the new family member. Such a giving, passionate girl, how did I get so lucky, Page thought. She came, her juices now on Charlotte's face. Page swung a leg over, got up off the girl's face and snuggled in beside her.

"I love you," Charlotte murmured. 

"I love you too," answered Page.

"I would've had your children," the model went on, putting her arm around the guitarist. "This is so exciting."

"You're not the one peeing every five minutes or puking each morning," quipped Page. "But I'm pretty excited too. Anyway I suppose this is what they say women are supposed to do, hm?" As the pot and orgasm she'd had settled in on her, she was growing sleepy.

"You don't do what women are supposed to do," spoke an equally high and satisfied Charlotte. "You do what Page wants to do. It's why I love you."

Hm, thought Page. Charlotte could be quite deep at unexpected moments.

Late November 1970, Headley Grange  
"I had an idea for a song that starts out acoustic, slow, rustic," Page was explaining. "Melody rises and falls, but slowly builds," she demonstrates by picking out a beautiful series of notes on the acoustic guitar. "It weaves and takes the listener on a ride, but then speeds up, slams into an electric number, then a thundering crescendo, a release. A musical orgasm."

The boys were staring at her, agape. "No pop song on the radio does such a thing," Jonesy countered. "The label will be howling about not getting airplay."

"It's genius," Robert put in. "It'll be something different, something nobody's ever done before."

"We're Led bloody Zeppelin, they can kiss our collective asses," Bonzo declared. "Let's see what we come up with."

Robert sat as the three worked out a basic progression, the skeleton of the song emerged and began to get fleshed out. Robert, entranced, grabbed a notepad and began scribbling, fitting words and phrases into the tune. After they ran through it a couple of times, Robert showed Page what he'd written. Her eyes widened, she looked from the paper to him. "You just did this? Just now?"

He nodded, prepared for a scalding critique.

"This is gorgeous, it's mysterious and epic--Robert, you beautiful, brilliant boy!" she gushed. "We have to put this together now." 

And within a day, Stairway to Heaven, which would go on to be the most-played song on FM radio, was created. It defied the conventions of the day; clocking in at an unheard of eight minutes, it went through tempo and mood changes and ended in a powerful crescendo, and had such strange imagery within the lyrics, yet it became bigger than even Page could've imagined. 

December came, and everyone was trying to stay warm in the drafty, two centuries old structure. Since it was a huge structure with many rooms, including bedrooms, they were all living and working there together. Page was especially affected; it seemed her growing passenger stole the warmth from her very bones. She often wore layers of clothing and scarves and jumpers and even fingerless gloves when she laid down tracks. There wasn't a particular hurry in writing or recording, but when they did record tracks the guitarist was merciless in her bid for perfection. 

"This album has got to be it, the one," she announced to engineer Andy Johns and the rest of the band one cold December morning. "Our statement to the record company, the music business and the world of what we're about. Raw power, to refute claims we've gone too soft. Beautiful songs that caress like a beloved hand, a lover enticing you with promises of love and the flesh before delivering with such force and passion you're overswept in its tidal wave, leaving you frightened and filled and like the most drawn out, searing climax you've ever had. The blues, heavy rock, folk music, magic, punch, this album will have it all. There must be nothing else like it."

The men, stunned, had to take a minute to even process the fact this heavily layered and swaddled, softspoken, pregnant waif of a guitarist had said something so moving and erotic. And then the moment was broken as she dashed to the loo to empty her stomach's contents. Robert followed her, rubbed her back and crooned to her. "You know, that beats 'squeeze my lemon' all to pieces," he said after she was done vomiting and in his arms trembling. "Maybe you should be writing the lyrics."

She laughed. "Ahh, leave it to you to make me forget my misery. But no, you are the songwriter. I have enough on my plate."

"I know you do. Look, Jonesy's come up with some riffs and we're going to work on that. He also knows a lot of what you want, soundwise, so you can go lay down for a bit if you like," he said gently. 

"Don't be daft, there's work to be done--"

"And it don't all have to be done today. Or next week, or next month even," the singer cut her off. "So off you go. When your stomach's settled we'll get some food and tea in you and then we'll show you our progress. Go on," he brooked no argument this time, and reluctantly the woman went upstairs to the bedroom her and Robert had been using and laid down. She'd talked to her mum about the continual morning sickness, and she told her there were several women in their family that had morning sickness the whole pregnancy, right on until childbirth. 

Oh, joy.

A week or so after that, the band had laid down a rough demo of 'When the Levee Breaks' but all agreed something was as yet off about it. The driving force behind it was Jonesy's basslines, which were spectacular, but Robert had trouble finding the rhythm and was singing in the exaggerated bluesman way he did in the beginning of "Bring it on Home."

"Just sing it straight," she instructed. Robert was firm that it sounded better the way he was doing it. She killed the mic and marched out to the vocal booth. "I'm telling you, it sounds like a damn parody, just sing it, don't put on that stupid affectation."

"And I'm telling you, it goes better with the rest of the song, the whole country blues feel," he countered.

"Who's the producer here, hm? Who played on hit records before you knew where your dick was?"

The bassist stifled a giggle, and Robert shot daggers with his expression. "Page, you've been on me all week, I've sang myself hoarse for you!"

"Not done with you," the guitarist asserted, then addressed Bonzo, who was already drinking while they were recording Robert's vocals. "Something's wrong, and I can't put my finger on it."

"I thought we were done for the day," complained the drummer. 

The guitarist made a decision. "Right. We are done for the day, get out, yeah you too, Percy, get outta my face," she announced. Everyone filed out, including Robert, who, stung, flounced out before he said something he'd likely be murdered horribly for, Page with child or no. "Not you," this was to Bonzo, who bristled. "Or you," she pointed at one of the technicians.

Everyone else vacated the premises in search of birds and beer, and Bonham watched in growing horror as he realised not only was he not getting drunk tonight, but their vicious and pregnant taskmaster, with the helper, was pulling pieces of his drumkit out of its spot, to the lobby where the main stairwell was. "Pagey, wait!" he called, and ran to snatch a floor tom from her. "You shouldn't be lifting on that!"

"I'm not this frail little thing that'll break!" She shrieked. "Nobody else sees what I'm trying to do."

"Page Elizabeth," Bonzo said gently, and put an arm around her. "We're doing our best. What you doing? I'll do it for you."

"I'm not a child," she huffed, but relaxed sightly. "Listen to that," she stated, indicating the echo of their voices.

"Ahhh, the echo," the drummer realised. It began to dawn on him what she was about. He and the employee set up the drums and Page instructed the technician to hang mics at different levels from the ceiling. 

"The drums have to breathe," Page told Bonham, though they'd had this conversation before. He'd been surprised at a guitarist and producer that concerned with the drums and how well they came through on recordings. "Play something," she instructed. He did so, and the full, thick sound bounced around them, and she was right, the sound breathed, was almost alive.

She hooked up a Binson Echorec, an analog reverb device, and cranked the levels, and ran it through the board. "Ok, now."

Bonzo played, and the extreme distorted reverb sounded like fucking explosions. Clear but thick, filling the whole place with the sound of it. Page strapped on a guitar, plugged in, began playing the basic riff they'd been using for 'When the Levee Breaks' and Bonzo joined in, and it was incredible. Like nothing either had heard before. "We're gonna get your track down now, you're gonna start it off with that nasty beat."

Boom, bah, boom boom-da-BAH.

It was early morning when they stopped, but they had finally captured the most audacious drum sound rock music had seen at that time, which would become one of the most sampled drum beats ever in the following years.

Page was bone weary yet happy, and had climbed the steps and was going to grab one of the mics she planned to use for something else later, overbalanced, fell, thankfully didn't fall all the way to the first floor, just to the landing, but hit the floor on her side and cried out. Bonzo ran up the steps to find her crying and holding her arm. "Pagey! Shit!" Gasped the drummer. Nobody else had made it back, they'd either went home with someone or gotten a hotel room, and here the drummer was with a lady knocked up who'd just had a fall.

"We're going to the hospital," he gathered her in his strong arms and carried her to his car. She tried to protest, but the bear of a man would have none of it. 

She woke up with the lanky, warm body of Robert curled around her. She was in a hospital gown, and it came back to her that she'd fallen. "Percy," she murmured, as he'd fallen asleep. 

He stirred and looked at her. "Pagey. How're you feeling?"

"Sore...oh, how's the baby?" She asked frantically.

"They say it's fine, they're just keeping you for a day for observation."

Miraculously, the little Page Junior was ok, and she had only pulled a muscle in her right arm, since she had thrown that arm out to try to catch herself. 

Robert now hovered over her, brought her food, wouldn't let her go anywhere alone, had become her shadow, in other words. On top of the goals she'd set for herself for this album, this grated on her nerves. It came to a head late December, when she was showing off the doubleneck Gibson SG she just purchased, which she planned to use when they played 'Stairway to Heaven' live. The singer felt she shouldn't be lifting such a heavy instrument when she gave him the middle finger; not only that, but she pressed it against his forehead for emphasis.

"You're acting like a child," complained the curly haired singer.

"And you're a dick. Why am I surrounded by dicks??" she asked rhetorically. 

"If you'd stayed away from all those dicks you'd likely not be so cranky!" Robert shot back, then recoiled in horror at what he just said. You could hear a pin drop in the room.

There was a sharp crack as Page's bony hand met Robert's face in an impressive bitch slap. "How dare you," she shook in anger. "You disrespectful shit. Uh-uh, shut it. Nothing comes out of your mouth the rest of the day till I say so."

"Mates," Jones cleared his throat. "Hey, we don't have a pressing deadline, there's no hurry. You both need to have a break, clear your heads, get out of here. Bonzo and I can work on some things, but you're gonna murder each other before we get the album made if you dont let off some steam." His grey eyes were knowing and earnest.

The guitarist groaned; the bassist was right, as usual. 

Robert rubbed his stinging cheek. "Why would I go anywhere with someone who just hit me?" he shouted.

"If you like I can find something in the black box to beat you to death with," was Page's immediate rejoinder.

"Stop it!" bellowed the drummer. "Both of you shut your face caves and go do something else!"

Grumbling, they complied, going upstairs to find something to wear out. Jonesy glanced at his rhythm section partner. "Face caves?"

Bonzo shrugged his shoulders. Jones burst out laughing.

In the bedroom they were using, they quickly stripped, and the singer, still a little miffed, still looked at Page lovingly when she turned to him. At nearly seven months along, the baby was around the size of a volleyball, though she still hadn't gained the normal amount of weight. She was destined to be angular, it appeared, although right now her breasts were pretty large and round. Robert approached her, saying, "May I?" 

She noticed he was looking at her belly and smiled. "Of course." He placed his hand on her abdomen, a dreamy look on his face. The little passenger kicked at the unfamiliar sensation, and Robert laughed. 

"He's a strong one."

"Could be a girl, you know."

"That's true. Another dragon lady guitar god in the making," he chuckled, then slid his long arms around her in soft embrace. She lay her cheek on his shoulder, drawing in his love and strength. "Are you ever gonna admit it's mine?"

"It could be yours. Or Marty's. Or Terry's," she evaded. 

"You've never even been with Marty. He's had Charlotte, not you."

"So sure of yourself. It could very well be yours. I wouldn't keep the child from you, you know."

"But we'd have to keep it a secret," Robert sighed sadly. "The kid deserves better. I love the baby anyway, because it's yours. I don't care, I'll be there, help any way I can."

"Gods, you're too sweet sometimes."

"Other times, you smack me in the face."

"You deserved it."

"I did," he admitted.

Robert dressed in a nice button up shirt, vest, jeans, and a leather jacket. Page wore loose slacks, button up blouse, jumper, and a wool double breasted frock coat to ward off the winter chill.

For publicity's sake, so it wouldn't seem like a date, they met up with mutual friend Terry Reid at a pub. They caught up on one another, laughed, and drank a lot of booze. Well, except for Page, who nursed a beer most of the night since she was having a baby. She ate a lot of greasy food she would likely pay for in the morning, but she didn't care, she had loosened up and was feeling pretty good. 

Terry had been working on his latest album The River, which would be coming out soon, and was taking some time off from touring. He'd heard the dark haired woman was with child and congratulated her, and praised Led Zeppelin III.

"You're one of the few that love it," she groused.

"Aw, people will come around," the singer songwriter assured her. "You'll see."

Page then excused herself to the loo AGAIN, God the kid was using her bladder as a football, and when she got back to the table she found Terry and Robert staring lovingly and drunkenly into each other's eyes, and Terry's hand was casually draped on the singer's supple thigh. Well, this was different, the woman thought, but interesting. She sat beside Terry and whispered in his ear, "I think you both are too inebriated to drive. Why don't we get a hotel room for the night? Together."

Terry tore himself from Robert's stare to look at her in surprise. "You sure about that? Me and Percy--"

"Oh, I'm gonna watch," she purred. "This will be a whole new kick."

The singer/guitarist glanced at Robert, who nodded and waggled his eyebrows.

"Oh, you freaks," declared Terry. "I'm in. Let's go."

They wasted no time when they got a room, with Page helping undress the two men and then seated herself in a nearby chair as the men got on the bed and embraced each other. Her nostrils flared at her intake of air, oh, this was beautiful. Slender, petite Terry with his straight dark hair, those big round hazel eyes and full, kissable lips, contrasted with long, lean, muscled Robert, all golden and statuesque. Page's hand slid down the waistband of her trousers and touched herself, her breath picking up when Robert began fucking Terry from behind, the smaller man on his hands and knees with the singer on his knees behind him thrusting into him. The sounds of skin slapping on skin soon had the sound of Robert jerking Terry off added to it as he continued to fuck him.

"Oh, you both are so pretty, so perfect," moaned Page. She had shucked her pants off, and was working herself with a will, a long leg thrown over the chair arm, exposing her downy black pubic hair and throbbing cunt. Both men look to the side to see Page fucking herself with her fingers and nearly came right then, but they kept it together. Robert pushed in. Out. Pleasure burst behind Robert's eyes, Terry's tightness a delicious friction, he was so beautiful, like an angel, he was defiling an angel he thought in his drunken mind, and she's there, she's watching and pleasuring herself to them, her, she, Page, she's the one, love love love her, oh she's enjoying this and that's what he wants.

Terry cried out when Robert found his spot and he plugged him even harder. "Fuck him, Robert! Yes! Faster!" Page entreated. She squealed out her orgasm, the squelching sounds becoming louder as her pussy and hand is drenched with her come.

Terry came, decorating his belly and the bedsheets with his jizz, then Robert right after. Terry fell forward with the lanky body of Robert on top of him, where they both lay panting for the next few minutes. "Percy," Terry said eventually. "You're crushing me, mate." 

Robert giggled and rolled off him. Terry rolled to face him, kissed him, then snuggled against the singer's rangy frame. Page finished undressing and crawled in beside Terry, nestled against his back. Thusly they went to blissful sleep.

Late that morning Terry awoke to find himself in the middle of a naked Led Zeppelin sandwich. He was pressed against Robert's back and Page was snuggled against his. Suddenly he felt movement or something against his back, and he squeaked in surprise. "What was that?" He wondered.

"Probably the baby moving," was Page's sleepy reply.

"That's weird and kinda disturbing."

"Have you even met us?" Mumbled Robert.

"You really are a buncha freaks," jibes Terry. 

"So are you," snorts the woman. "Hey, you wanna feel the baby kick?"

"It's all right?"

"Yeah, you watched me get off while I watched you two shag. I think we're all friends here."

Terry turned over to look into her sleepy face with a little grin on her lips. She took his hand and placed it on her belly. Sure enough, the child kicked at the hand invading their space. Terry laughed in wonder. "That's so cool! Wow."

"Kid is gonna be a warrior," opined Robert.

His hand still on her abdomen, she kissed Terry, slowly, he melted into it, lost himself in it. After some time, he scooted forward and Page felt his hardening member against her hip, and he started to roll on top of her but she placed her hand on his chest. "No, Terry darling, not that." Stone cold sober, the only cock inside her she wanted now was Robert's. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, love," he said softly. "Can I--can I make you feel good? I wanna make you feel good."

She slid his hand from the curve of her belly to her cunt, his slid a finger inside her. She wasn't that wet, but that changed once he found her clit and rubbed, kissed her, nuzzled her now-full breasts. He got two fingers in her easy now, pushed in and out. He kissed and touched her gently, even reverently, oh that's nice, she thought, he's such a sweetheart, so pretty, pretty, pretty boy.

Robert meanwhile heard them, rolled over to see what was going on, got intensely turned on and began wanking himself off.

The dark haired man was caught up in fucking Page with his hand, making her gasp and moan, he had, as he would admit later on, a crush on her, but he'd never acted on it, had never been anything but professional. There was mutual respect and admiration and friendship there, but somehow here he was, having been fucked by a golden god and now pleasuring a dark goddess. She clutched at him, cried out her release, shuddered against him.

Terry kissed her again, slowly pulled his fingers from her depths. "Pagey," he murmured.

Robert got off not long after that, with Terry getting the brunt of it on his hip. After cleaning him off, Robert asked, "You want me to help you with that?" He indicated the other man's raging hardon.

Robert sucked him off and they called it a morning.

/1994 Australian Press Conference 

Page/Plant

Interviewer: Was there any hesitation when you both went back into the studio to record? Obviously there's a little bit of apprehension there, thinking "Well it's been a while since we've done this"?

Robert, golden hair frizzy and wearing a baggy sweatshirt, frowns. "No. Your choreography is insulting." He pauses. "I went to the toilet. Actually no, Page went to the toilet for ages." The attendees laugh. "D'you remember? What were you doing in there all that time? Surely not your hair."

Page, dressed in black t-shirt, black jeans, men's black suit jacket, quips, "I'm surprised you noticed, Robert." Lit cigarette between her fingers, a perfect counterpoint to the tired yet manic golden god next to her.

"We all started work while she was gone," he laughs. At some groans and comments from the attendees, Robert sits up straighter, eyes big. "What, ladies don't go to the toilet?"

"I was there to get away from you," the guitarist piped up, then took a drag of the cigarette. More laughter.

Interviewer: Next question, What do you hate hearing about yourselves or reading about yourselves in the media? 

Robert points at the fifty year old woman beside him and grins. "What do we hate most?" she muses. "I don't know that we know anything specific. Robert?"

"I dunno," he replied.

I: It's all great?

"No, it's bearable, not great." the guitarist spoke.

Robert jumps in. "They get my age wrong," he said.

"Yeah, actually," the woman spoke up. "There was a review in England where Robert was his age and I was sixty. Rather tame, but that's good. Means I look good for my age? Hope that's what it meant."

"Old enough to be me mum," Robert giggled.

"Not hardly. Would you claim him?" Page asks the journalists, who laugh.

"I would!" a young woman in the back shouts.

"I'll give you a good price for him," Page offered, then stubbed out the cigarette./

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that went in all sorts of directions. Comments, kudos, loves, always welcomed!


	3. The Childe and More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finishing of Led Zeppelin IV and Page gives birth, along with scenes of some other times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Page is added to the world. Some lots of feels, but some happies, too.
> 
> Also, there's illustrations for you to peruse, check the chapter notes below, at the end.
> 
> Oh blowjobs and M/F sex, wheeee!
> 
> Will someone give Terry fucking Reid a hug?

January 1971 

Everyone spent the Christmas holiday with their respective families, then reconvened back at Headley Grange early January. It was dank, cold, miserable, and Bonzo had snuck coolers of whiskey and brandy into the normally dry facility to keep all of them warm and entertained. Charlotte had gotten Page an incredibly ugly baggy Christmas jumper to wear, big enough for her expanding belly, and she wore it along with a collection of scarves, cardigans, several pairs of socks, etc. The boys made fun of her looking like she was going on an Arctic expedition when she plugged in to practice or record numbers.

They had come back to the song that Jonesy had written the riff to, since it had a difficult time signature, 5/4, weird stops, and differences in the length of time between the spaces where Robert stops singing. They decided to take a short break and Robert went outside to breathe in the snowy air. It was like most weather didn't affect him, nothing could touch him, he'd just as soon run around out there buck naked, in fact keeping clothes on him was a constant challenge. "Oh, hello," he could be heard saying from the door that he left cracked open, another thing Jonesy would bitch about, and would wonder out loud if Robert had been raised in a barn. "Hey boy, are you cold? C'mere." After a few minutes Robert reemerged from outside with a bedraggled black dog wagging his tail. "Look what I found!" he gushed.

"You found a mongrel," Jonsey sighs.

"Which one? The blonde one or the black one?" guffawed Bonzo.

"No, we're not keeping him, Planty," warned the guitarist.

A few hours of practice later finds Robert happily sitting on the sofa with an equally happy dog, feeding him bits of his sandwich.

"That dog has to belong to somebody," Page pointed out when the singer protested letting the dog back out. "They may be looking for him."

Robert grumbled but finally agreed to put the animal out. When he turned back to the others, a light bulb went off over his head. "Let's call Jonesy's song Black Dog!" he declared.

"Name it after the dog?" repeated the bassist.

So it became Black Dog, which was the opening song on Led Zeppelin IV, kicked off the whole album. The guitar and bass was in 5/4 time, while the drums stuttered forward in straight 4/4 time, and had it been anybody else, the song would've fallen apart. There were times it did sound like the song was coming apart at the seams, but it was the skill of Bonzo that held it together, with the natural swing he drummed with; he had a push-and-pull, almost loose way that he drummed, which pushed or pulled the speed or melody of the song itself.

Late February came and the album that would become Led Zeppelin IV was in the can. All that remained was mixing, but for once, Page was in no hurry to mix and master the recordings--she was heavily pregnant at this point, and felt like she was waddling around everywhere she went. She wore long flowy skirts and blazers to hide her baby bump if she went anywhere in public, and there was usually roadies to get in between of any photographers or to see journalists off if they got too close. In certain musical circles the rumor had gotten out that the guitarist for Led Zeppelin was having a baby, that's why she had dropped out of sight, but it clashed with other rumors that she was trying to kick drugs, or was deathly ill, had gotten married, and a few other outrageous claims besides.

February went by and became March, and the baby showed no sign of coming. As the birth weight was still a little low, the doctor felt the child would come when it was ready, and to let it gain weight and grow. 

One night late in March Page sat straight up in bed. "Oh!" She cried, her hand going to her abdomen. Another pain, then she shook Charlotte awake. 

"Is the baby coming?" queried the model. 

"I think so. Oww!"

Like a flash Charlotte was ready and had bundled her girlfriend into her car 

The rest of Led Zeppelin were soon in the waiting room, awaiting news. It wasn't every day the guitarist for the biggest band in the world went into labor. 

Page's mother Patricia had went back with her daughter, along with Charlotte as a 'relative' (so they fibbed a bit), leaving everyone else at loose ends. After some time, they were informed that delivery had begun normally, but it was discovered despite the baby not weighing as much as was the norm, she was having a lot of trouble, hadn't stretched enough, and it was too late for a c-section. Everyone's faces were filled with concern, with Robert's wearing a look of absolute terror. The obstetrician was going to do an episiotomy in an attempt to deliver the baby and cause the least amount of damage. 

At Robert's expression, Bonzo came to stand beside him as he trembled, put a beefy arm around him. After a moment, Page's father, James, approached, coming to the other side of the singer. He was an elegant older man, posh, and he could see Page got a lot of her looks from him. "You're the father, aren't you?" said barely above a whisper. When Robert turned toward him, shocked, he laughed. "I know that look. I've had that look before."

"I have, too," added the drummer. "That worried, lost look."

"You already have a family, you know how these things can go," James went on, staring at the blond man as if trying to make a decision about him.

"I know. And I know I'm a horrible, cheating bastard, but the thought of losing her--oh, I can't," he choked out. "I'd take it all from her if I could."

"I've been praying, but I have faith it'll be all right. I also want to say I'm happy to get a grandchild, no matter how it was gotten. I knew she'd never marry, you see."

"The whole liking girls thing, right," Bonzo said unnecessarily. "Wot?" he wondered when the other two men glared at him.

Seconds ticked into minutes, minutes slid into hours. At last they got word from a nurse that Page was all right after all, and had delivered a healthy baby girl, at 22 1/2 inches long and 6 pounds 8 ounces, a rather long, thin baby, despite Page carrying her weeks over the projected due date. She was fine, though, and Page, exhausted and now stitched up from being cut in order to have the child, was asleep. "I understand Miss St James isn't married," the nurse said, having trouble keeping the disdain out of her voice. "Is the father here? Or any other relatives?"

"Yes," Robert stood from where he had been slumped.

"Would you like to see the baby?"

"God, yes!"

"Then follow me," the nurse told him curtly, and he followed her to the nursery. Patricia was already there with Charlotte, holding the newborn. Charlotte of course had called first dibs and had already held the child for a while. Page's mother, despite her disapproval of Page's sexual antics and lifestyle and the supposed father being in the band with her AND being married to SOMEONE ELSE, smiled at Robert and handed over the bundle.

He uncovered the blanket to find an almost exact replica of the guitarist herself (broad face, cute little nose, the lips), with one key difference--a thick shock of white-yellow hair on the newborn's round head. Oh. Oh wow, he thought, his heart feeling as if it would burst with love and excitement. The infant stirred and kicked and frowned a bit, looked up at him, blinked. She yawned, having been worn out from the rough labor as well, but after furrowing her brow a moment in a familiar Page gesture, she cooed and smiled at him. "Oh, look at you," he breathed. He was no stranger to babies, having one of his own with his wife, but it just floored him how amazing it was, seeing another little human he'd help make. He was almost sure of it, but he'd let Page have her public denial. For the time being.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Charlotte said.

"She is," Robert choked out again, weeping with joy.

"Page looked just like that," remarked Patricia fondly. "Got those precocious eyes, like she's wise beyond her years, like her."

Charlotte couldn't keep her hands off the baby, had to stroke the fluff of cornsilk hair on the newborn's head. "Oh, Robert! That's your hair," she giggled. She laid her hand on his arm, leaned toward him. "I was so angry when she told me about you and her," she said softly. "Behind my back and everything, right under my nose, even. But look what you've given her, given us! She's wonderful. Thank you."

The newborn began to fuss, quieted for a bit when the singer rocked her in his arms, then began fussing again. The attendant took the baby to put her down so she could sleep. Even though he wanted to stay, he knew it would be publically inappropriate to do so, also considering his wife was at home with their toddler, Robert went home to get some rest. 

Several hours later, Page woke up and asked to see the child. When asked what she was going to name her, the reply was Scarlet Lilith Plant St James, but she would publically be known as Scarlet Lilith St James. Having never had any interest in children or babies, the guitarist had to be shown how to hold the newborn and support her head, but when she looked down, she was overwhelmed with such love, more than she thought was inside her. "You're perfect," she said to the squirming bundle. Scarlet grinned at her, a lopsided smile that made Page's stomach drop out of her body. She'd known all along, though she'd tried to lie to herself, that this was Robert's daughter. But seeing that smile and hair, it was a jolt of reality. "My little Scarlet." She kissed the tiny forehead.

G (with Jonesy) dropped by later on to check on mother and baby, surprised everyone by cooing and making faces at the infant, who didn't cry but got upset and did a very Page-like frown, and made everyone laugh. "She's another Pagey, all right!" the manager declared with a smile. "That frown did it for me. Aw, will ya look at that face! Adorable." Scarlet then smiled tentatively, which made G's eyebrows fly up. "Hah! I know whose smile that is."

Robert arrived just then with a new blanket, (ironically) knitted by Maureen and other items for the new little St. James clone. Robert smiled when he saw Page awake with the baby, and it was comical for the bystanders to witness the mirrored grins. "What?" Robert wondered.

After a bit, Peter Grant and Jonesy left, and the parents found themselves alone with a baby asleep in her mother's arms. "Look at what you did. She's so perfect," Robert spoke softly.

"She's incredible," Page agreed. 

"So you named her Scarlet."

"Yes."

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired, sore. I'm sure once the drugs wear off my whole nether regions are gonna be on fire."

Robert chuckled. "They'll give you medication for that."

"Good. I'm hungry, won't you bring me a snack or something?"

"You're hungry, now?"

"I pushed this baby out of me and been cut and stitched stem to stern, so yes, go get me some food. Go. Gogogogo."

May 1971  
"GETTING THE LED BACK IN"

"LED ZEPPELIN IV A POWER DRIVEN MASTERPIECE"

"TOO MUCH VOLUME IN LATEST ZEPPELIN OFFERING, NOT ENOUGH NUANCE"

"IS PAGE ST JAMES LOSING THE MAGIC?"

"LED ZEPPELIN: BETTER THAN THE STONES?"

"WHERE HAS ST JAMES BEEN?"

"LATEST PAGE ST JAMES PHOTOS: IS IT DRUGS? ALCOHOL? A DISEASE? WHY SO CAMERA SHY?"

"Bloody hell," Page swore as she thumbed through the various tabloids at Peter Grant's office/Zeppelin stronghold. The boys, Terry Reid and Tarryn Griffin, another artist managed by G, sat around the lounge area while Page groused about the articles about her or the band.

Tarryn was a short, brown haired spitfire who played guitar and sang, snatched up by G before a fad of   
'Girl guitarists/rockers' could get started in the wake of Page's superstardom, and then of course be driven into the ground. She was a songwriter as well, and G planned to market her as a solo artist.

"You should probably stop looking at that drivel," suggested Terry.

"Fuck the press," Page declared. "When I finish re-mixing the album, get us a tour together, G. And no press passes, no cameras, no recording equipment, jack fucking shit."

"They'll come crawling back to you," Tarryn put in. "Once you've broken box office sales yet again."

Page shot a look across the table at the little dynamo. "You wanna get outta here, let me fuck you real good?"

"Yeah, ok," was the reply. Both women got up and exited, leaving the men sitting there stunned.

"Dunno about you blokes, but now I gotta rub one out," said Terry into the silence.

"I seem to have that same problem," Robert grinned saucily.

"Oh for fuck's sake. This is like a Greek tragedy. Only with more fucking," complained the manager.

A while later finds Terry and Robert in one of the empty offices, Terry sitting on the desk, with Robert in the office chair, the guitarist's manhood in his mouth. Terry's head was thrown back, he emitted a gravelly yowl as he spurted his essence into Robert's warm mouth. He'd already done the same for the singer, and he found that nobody sucked cock like Robert did. He laid back on the desk after he spent himself, his legs dangling over the side. 

Robert pulled his jeans back up, and after a moment, Terry sat up, got off the desk and followed suit. What's a blowjob, or some passionate sex, between friends, right? Terry leaned back on the desk once he was dressed, stared at the singer for a minute. "How is she, Percy? Really?" He inquired.

"Pagey's Page, you know," Robert shrugged. "She keeps a lot under wraps. I try to be there for her."

"Baby's yours, innit? Between us boys."

"I believe so."

"You'll look after her, won't you?" He requested, his cherubic face earnest.

It dawned on Robert that Terry had strong feelings for the guitarist, maybe not the all-encompassing love Robert had, but he was infatuated, had been for a long time. "You know I'll do the best I can."

"I've known her since oh, '65. This business, the music business, can chew people up and spit 'em out if you're not careful. You know how focused she gets."

1965\. Why did that date seem significant to Robert? Racking his brain, it dawned on him. His blue eyes widened.

"She tell you, did she?"

"She didn't tell me who, just that...she lost a baby."

"I was one of the possibilities, but I think it was mine. I was just a kid, heh. Fifteen years old, playing with all these greats. She was nigh on twenty-one, and horrified when she found out how old I was," he spoke. He'd never told another soul any of this. "We all jammed at a club, she was still in art school, and we hit it off for some reason. I was a little fellow, slim like a girl, that's probably what she saw in me."

"Oh, Terry," Robert's heart broke for him.

"Seemed like no sooner she told me she was up the duff, she lost it. She was sick a lot in them days, it's why she didn't join the Yardbirds when they first asked her. Probably just as well, what's a fifteen year old gonna do with a baby? If it was even mine. But it hurt me to my soul."

"I'm so sorry, I--I don't know what to say." 

"I know you feel cheated, like you didn't get what you really wanted, like fate has conspired against you. But think about this, there's those of us who'd love to have what you have. She loves you, any fool could see it." After the miscarriage, and partly because of the age difference, they maintained a professional relationship, that eventually became a close friendship. He was overcome the time all three of them were together, when she let him feel the life moving inside her, it was like a gift, he knew she meant it as such. He hoped against hope, but she made it clear who she really wanted. He'd have already asked her to marry him if he thought there was the slightest chance.

"I was never sure. She's such a mystery, even when she's laid open," Robert said, his mind whirling. He knew if Page ever looked Terry's way he'd take her. Peter was more right than he knew; it was all like a Greek tragedy. Just with 67% more fucking.

"That's St James for ya," the other man chortled.

May 1995  
Page Plant tour

The show went great, everyone played until they were wrung out, but it was amazing. It felt so good to play music, to be together again. Page was dressed in an unbelievably short, barely mid thigh black skirt, a bronze colored silk blouse, and short, ankle high leather boots. To be around fifty years old those long legs were incredible, which wasn't lost on Robert, who wanted to run his hands up that still-smooth skin.

When it was over, she was drenched in sweat, greying black hair sticking to her forehead and straggling around her shoulders. Robert was covered as well in a sheen of sweat, as he sported black leather pants and boots, and for his top half he only wore an embroidered, blue vest open to the waist, to show off his chest and arms. They were impressive, he had added weight and mass since the Zeppelin days, but Page found it sexy as hell.

After the show they slipped away as soon as was feasible, and went to their hotel room. No sooner than they were inside their bodies were pressed together, kissing deeply, holding each other tightly. Page undid the clasp on the vest, slid it off the broad shoulders. He unbuttoned her blouse to find her braless, palmed her breasts. They were heavier and not as high as they once were, age and gaining weight had seen to that. It made no difference to him, this was his Page, his love. They made their way to the bed, she sat down and undid his leather pants to free his straining cock. She enclosed it in her mouth, heard him moan, her mouth moved up and down his massive shaft. He couldn't wait, he wanted her, needed her. He jerked her skirt up, and she helped him slide her panties off. Without even taking his trousers off he covered her body with his own, entered her depths in one hard thrust. She was already wet and ready for him.

He pushed in and out, finding her half clothed even more of a turn on than being completely bare; her blouse still on though unbuttoned to expose her breasts, the skirt shoved up and now bunched at her waist, still wearing those expensive boots. Like some horny teenagers trying to shag while the parents were in the next room, like he was debauching some well dressed innocent. Her belly was soft now, the stretch marks from her pregnancies prominent, but he was glad to see her with meat on her bones; she had fought a long battle with drugs, but had won. She had rounded hips and thighs now, which he found incredibly sexy.

She wrapped those long legs around his waist, driving him deeper into her. She was bucking her hips to meet him, she buried her fingernails into Robert's back. The bed was thumping against the wall now, banging and moving as the musicians fucked each other's brains out. "Come on, Planty," Page goaded. "Fuck me! Harder, yes, fucking plow me!" She screamed.

Robert obliged, hammered her until he was sure he was going to throw a hip out, made her come so many times till she was so wet he thought he'd just slide right out of her. But then it hit him. Rolled over him. An orgasm that was like he was twenty again, a hard, intense, incredible release that left him sated and exhausted. He lay upon Page, panting as she too caught her breath.

She wasn't done with him, though. They fooled around in the shower, then shagged again before collapsing sometime late that night, or was it early morning? It was nearly midday by the time Robert awoke, to find Page in his arms. Oh, how he'd missed this. Despite all that had happened and all they'd done to each other and the years that had passed, this was the way it was supposed to be, all along. The two of them, together. The guitarist's head was on his broad chest, the ebony hair now greying at the temples. 

She stirred as he stroked the dark tresses, opened those moss green eyes to look at him, smiled. "I almost thought this whole thing was a dream," she murmured. "So glad it isn't."

"Did you think it was the other chap?" He jabbed at her, but it was playful. Mostly.

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Rob. It's surprising, coming from you."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm not gonna fight, I'm still getting over last night. You're insatiable," he snorted.

"Menopause, dear. You're with an old woman."

He squeezed her. "I'm not far behind you, love. Nahh, you're not old, you've aged better than me. Like fine wine."

"You old flatterer."

2020, Robert's House

Page found Robert on the laptop she bought him, it seems he was getting the hang of it, though he refused to have anything personally to do with social media. She came up behind, threaded her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek. "Robert, I've thought about some things," she began. 

"Yeh?" was his half-distracted response.

"The answer is yes."

"The answer?" he turned to her. "Is it to the question whether you'd let me fuck you up the ass while I'm dressed as Tina Turner from the Who's Tommy?"

"Dammit, Rob, you can ruin a whole moment. NO, the other question. If I would marry you."

Realisation crept across his weathered features, then his eyes grew big. "You're serious? You will?" He cried, leaped out of the chair, grabbed the guitarist and swung her around, then squeezed her close. Both had sworn they wouldn't marry again, but then, they'd pined for each other for decades. 

This, Robert thought. This this this. What should've happened five decades ago, had things been different. She kissed him, then asked, "You won't run away again?"

"No, Pagelove. Never again," he vowed. "We're still not doing a Led Zeppelin reunion."

"Damn. Well, a girl can hope, can't she?"

2013 Interview 

Interviewer: Robert, you never really made plain the reason you abandoned the successful Page/Plant project that lasted most of the 90's.

Robert raised an eyebrow. "I didn't? I'm pretty sure I did."

I: I mean, each tour sold out, the albums sold, but you, to quote Page, "Ran off into the desert."

Robert shifted in the chair, snorted. "Are you referring to the scandal? You lot make it out to be a lot more than it is."

I: It's kind of a big deal, finding out you both had hidden a love child for decades...

"Not really hidden, though, right? It was right there for anybody to pick up the threads." He shogged up his messy blond curls, looked like he was counting to 100 for serenity. "That's a dead horse that's been flogged for ages now. Oh please!" he stopped the interviewer before they could speak. "The people it should matter to already knew, and no longer even had a horse in that race. This is incredibly poor taste, by the way."

I: You didn't answer the question, though, as to why you left the project, the music, the m--ah, musical partner for so much of your life.

"The threads are there, if anyone wants to pick them up and follow them, as I've said before. It's never been about the money. I don't care about money, publicity, I've had all that I ever need of it. So for the last time, NO WE'RE NOT MARRIED, WE NEVER HAD A SECRET WEDDING, WE DIDN'T SACRIFICE OUR LOVE CHILDREN TO SATAN, AND EVERYTHING ELSE IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS," Robert stared into the camera for a moment, got up, jumped down from the dias like he was a spry twenty year old, and stalked off.

"Randy, I told you not to poke the lion," the director yelled at the interviewer. Thankfully, this wasn't live, only being taped, so maybe something could be salvaged of the rest of the interview.

Robert went to the lounge, downed some soda, breathed deep as he stood there. Scarlet was eleven when she learned her mother's former bandmate was her father. He'd always been Uncle Robert, she had played with his children, spent vacations with him. When he and Maureen split up he saw no reason to keep it from her anymore. She was shocked, angry, confused, everything about her life was being turned upside down, but she already loved Robert as a father figure before. He was finally able to be a father to her, the one she deserved.

And this bloody fool just lays all his life out before everyone, God he felt like a specimen in a freak show, for a coin you can come around and gawk and poke the creatures with a stick, come one, come all! 

Maybe he was being too sensitive, folks always seemed so interested in stars and their personal lives, otherwise all those tabloids wouldn't sell, would they? It still blew his mind that there were so many that found who he'd fucked or not fucked and his children that damned fascinating. It's the price for this level of fame, he supposed, but it was enough to make him have another stroke. The ancient flip phone in his pocket rang, he took it out and answered it.

"Oh, hi, Page," he was a bit surprised. He rarely heard from her these days. "Yeah. Oh, just was doing a talk show, but it's done now. You don't wanna know, actually," he said, then paused. "Scarlet's new exhibition? Well, sure, yeah, I'll come. I don't care if there's something said in the press anymore, they've done all damage that can possibly be done, and it's old news, besides. It's my daughter's work, I'll be there. Yes. Well, I'll see you there, Pagey." The phone clicked off. 

It'll be good to see Scarlet, but especially to see Page again. He hated to admit it, but he missed her terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it for this one, thanks for all the encouragement and commentary, I love it loads! 
> 
> Here's some [illustrations](https://queenboudica76.tumblr.com/post/631286420326252544/illustrations-for-queen-of-light-led-zeppelin) to goggle at if you like. Page, Robert and Terry.
> 
> So, what you think? I hope my Muse will let up on me now lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Just gonna ride this wave I guess till my Muse is ready for something else, lol.
> 
> Thoughts, kudos, hugs, ideas welcome!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lots of people talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110155) by [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/pseuds/wetkitty420)
  * [Lots of people talk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110155) by [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/pseuds/wetkitty420)




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